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Hanukkah: Festival of Lights

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Ketzirah in the Fairy Lights (c 2000)
Ketzirah in the Fairy Lights (c 2000)

So I’m sitting here listening to Matisyahu rock it on the Miracle remix EP and thinking about Hanukkah.  I’ve been having this nearly heretical thought lately.  I know, not shocking for me — but go with it.

Hanukkah is the festival of lights – right?

The solstice aspect and the reviving of the light is even older than the Maccabee aspect, if you think about it.  There’s certainly ancient midrash about Adam at the solstice and such.  The central ritual activity is lighting the 9-branch menorah called a Hanukkiah. Just about everything else we added on over the centuries, which is just fine.

But let’s go back to that light thing again.  It’s the festival of lights….

Okay, so here’s what I’m thinking about.  All those super pretty lights, preferably the white ones – not the tacky color ones, that our Christian neighbors put up this time of year.  Yeah…we have the festival of lights, but they put up the lights? I know it could be seen as the height of assimilation, but what if we adopted white lights on our homes too.  It seems like the urge to put all those lights and candles up all springs from a deep mythic place where we are all afraid of the dark.  Where we’re all afraid that the sun really won’t come back and it will just keep getting darker and darker.

I know when I walk home during the winter I’m so grateful for all those lights.  They push back the darkness.  The remind me, even the tacky ones, that I have neighbors and I’m not alone in the world. Someone must be there to make those lights  happen right?

Trust me, I’m not for the Christmas-ization of Hanukkah.  I had a “Hanukkah Bush” when I was a kid.  It makes me a bit ill in retrospect. There’s just no way that tacky white plastic tree had anything to do with the Jewish wheel of the year. But lights I think we have a pretty valid claim on.  I know traditional Judaism likes to put as many walls between us and breaking mitzvot as they can, but would some pretty white lights be so wrong during these dark days?

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Carly Lesser (a.k.a. Ketzirah – קצירה) is Kohenet, Celebrant and artist whose  passion is helping Jews who are  unaffiliated, earth-based or in interfaith / inter-denominational relationships connect more deeply with Judaism and make it relevant in their every day lives. She is an active blogger and prayer leader on OneShul.org andPeelaPom.com.

Parshat Vayeishev: The Courage of Joseph by Russell McAlmond

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imagesThe parsha of Vayeishev has one of the most well-known stories in the Torah. Most Jews, and many Christians, are very familiar with the story of Joseph’s coat of many colors given to him by his loving father Jacob. We are told that Jacob favored Joseph over his other sons because he was a son “of his old age.” The consequences of this favoritism starts out tragically, but by the end of the story it is revealed to be a triumph for the will of G-d. So how does an ancient Jewish story have any guidance for us in the 21st Century – the age of social media?

The first lesson is that although technology may change rapidly, human nature does not. The reason this story resonates with us today is because we recognize the human nature involved. We comprehend that a parent who favors one child over another will most likely cause problems with the other children. We are aware that a child seemingly boasting of this relationship with his siblings in the family will only exacerbate the tensions between them. In short, we can identify dysfunctional families because they also exist today. Human nature has not changed over thousands of years even if we have computers, Twitter, and the internet. Technology does not replace the need to be cognizant of human nature.

The second lesson is a story of courage, one of the finest parts of human nature. Joseph was almost murdered because of his dream interpretations – and yet he persisted. He recognized the truth of his gift from G-d and continued to use it even if it caused others to be envious of him. It was this same gift which drew the attention of Pharaoh who elevated him to the lofty position of administering the Pharaoh’s kingdom. If he had not used the gift due to the trouble it brought upon him, he would not have achieved the status he did. He also would have been unable to use his gift to save his family and hundreds of thousands of human lives (Egyptians).

So how are we to be courageous today? By using our own G-d given gifts to make the world a better place regardless of the risk. Like Joseph we may have to ignore the danger of being out of step with our families, and even our society, in order to persist with the truth. It is very difficult to be the one light shining in a sea of darkness, but we also know that only if we use our gifts will we know the true reason for our existence. With courage, we can be like Joseph and have a very positive impact on perfecting our families and our world.

Foregiveness: A Yom Kippur Thought

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In the midst of a deep spiritual crises, the “golden calf” episode, the Creator revealed to Moses the “Thirteen Attributes of Compassion” (Exodus 34:6,7). Since then, invoking these “Thirteen Attributes” at opportune times have brought about the Creator’s unconditional forgiveness.

The “Date Palm of Deborah” is short book written by the renown Kabbalist Rabbi Moshe Cordovaro (1522 -1570). The main body of this work is a description of how each of the Creator’s “Thirteen Attributes of Compassion” has a human counterpart which can actually be practiced by people to forgive those who have hurt them. All human acts of forgiveness express one or more of these attributes.

For example, it’s commonplace for people who have been hurt by others to feel insulted. The concept underlying the first attribute of compassion addresses the insult cast at the Creator when people knowingly misuse His resources He kindly created to benefit humanity. These people abuse… [Read more…]

Has Anyone Seen My Kavanah?

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i-dont-know

Okay, here’s the thing: while I typically possess the organizational skills of an ant with OCD, over this past year my every attempt at organization has been confounded. I believe that this is due, in large part, to my lifestyle becoming increasingly nomadic; and my resistance to this. In an effort to both conserve space and travel lightly, I was forced to consolidate my possessions down to the bare necessities (I mean, I was only able to take, like, ten to twelve pairs of shoes with me. In my world this is nearly equivalent to a social crisis.). Consequently, when high holy days crept up behind me, placed its hands over my eyes, and whispered, “guess who?” I was completely caught off guard. To say I was ill prepared for the most important holidays on the Hebrew calendar would be like saying Henry Ford was a bit put off by the Jews; or that the Middle East has one or two small issues. Shifting into seat-of-my-pants, headless-chicken mode, under which I had been operating to a much greater extent lately, I tried to remember where I had stored the things I would need for the days of awe. More specifically, I wondered when I had last seen my kavanah. For those of you who are unfamiliar with the term kavanah, it is a Hebrew word meaning intention or direction of the heart and describes the state of mind one should be in while praying.

Oy gevalt! Was my Kavanah in mothballs somewhere? Where on Earth had I put it? I searched through every closet and box, finding nothing but half-finished projects and mementos of broken vows and unfulfilled oaths. I started to sweat until I remembered that I had already nullified my vows and oaths during Yom Kippur the previous year. Baruch HaShem! At least I didn’t have that to worry about. Also, I distinctly remembered having my Kavanah with me since that time. So where did I put it? Did I leave it at the shul among the prayer shawls and kippot that are provided for those who don’t have them? Perhaps it was buried deep within my storage unit, in the box containing my white Yom Kippur clothes? I was at a complete loss.

Feeling like a complete shmuck, I thought that perhaps I might skip high holy days services this year; then no one would have to know about my lost kavanah. Except that I had already requested, and was granted, a ticket for all of the services for a very meager donation. Even though I attend synagogue services sporadically, at best, the people at this shul have been very good to me, and never make me feel like the village schnorrer (beggar) that I actually am. And once again, by granting me a ticket at a ridiculously generous discount, they were extending the hand of tzedakah to me. No, not attending services was not an option. I needed some advice. In the past, when faced with an untenable situation, I typically asked myself how my dad would advise me in a given scenario. In this instance, I was sure he would have told me to “suit up and show up.” Okay…good…I could do that…probably.

When the first day of Rosh Hashanah arrived, I suited up, showed up, and listened to the beautifully plaintive call of the shofar. Even though I did my best to stay anonymous amidst the sea of people, the rabbi noticed me and proffered, along with his warm greeting, an invitation to the break-the-fast dinner that takes place at the conclusion of Yom Kippur. I accepted the invitation graciously, and hoped my nervous smile didn’t betray me. I wondered if he would have extended the invitation if he had known that my kavanah was still MIA? Sh*t! Where the f@#* was my f@#*ing kavanah? Since I had 10 days until I really needed it, I went home and promptly forgot all about it. You can imagine my horrified shock when I woke up one morning to find Yom Kippur staring me straight in the face.

Bugger! Bugger! Bugger! No kavanah in sight, and my white Yom Kippur clothes were still buried somewhere in the depths of my storage unit. I would have to wing it. In keeping with my decidedly punk personality, I made the ironic choice to wear all black.

I mean:
A) I had plenty of black clothes
B) Hell, I even had black canvas sneakers
C) Being the one black dot in a sea of white is sort of my shtick.

Once I had suited up, I went to the Kol Nidre service for the showing up portion of the evening. Guess who wasn’t with me? That’s right; Ms. Kavanah apparently had a better party to attend. The evening service passed more slowly than the line at the DMV; and the service on the following morning was even slower (it’s not like I could hide my kindle inside my Machzor; there were too many people in attendance. But I totally thought about it). It was all I could do to not run screaming to the nearest exit. That afternoon, as I was heading back to the shul for the concluding service of Neilah, I began to despair of ever seeing my kavanah again. It was during the final moments of Yom Kippur that I became really desperate; and as the gates of Heaven started to close I prayed feverishly, pleading to be written in the book of life. Suddenly, I saw something flutter in my peripheral vision. When I turned to look, guess who was sitting there looking oh-so-convivial? Yup…it was my kavanah. I was so relieved to see her that I decided I could wait until the service was over to discuss the (ahem) problem.

When the service concluded I quietly requested a word with her outside. Once we were out of earshot of the other congregants I turned on her angrily. “Where the hell have you been?” I demanded, “I’ve been looking everywhere for you since before Rosh Hashanah! You sure picked a fine time to disappear. If I don’t get written in the book of life this year, and I die, I am so taking you with me!” She looked at me as though I had lost my mind (and since I was subjecting abstract concepts, like kavanah, to anthropomorphism, perhaps I had). “Nu?” I asked her impatiently, “What do you have to say for yourself?” She contemplated for a moment and then spoke. “Wait,” she began, “you don’t actually think that I’m something that can be carelessly misplaced and forgotten, do you? Like a book or car keys?” Then under her breath she said, “And you think I’m a flake?”

Did I think that? Did I think she was like other commonplace items that are easily misplaced? She looked at me then; looked directly into my eyes, searching expectantly for contrition that wasn’t there. “You are too much!” she said, clearly exasperated. “I can’t believe I have to explain this to you. Um, I actually live inside of you!”.

Okay, that was hurtful.

”Here’s the problem. I can’t engage unless you engage me.” It was at that precise moment that it dawned on me: she was right. It wasn’t until I became desperate enough to try that she appeared. I mean, sure, suiting up and showing up is all well and good; but because I had convinced myself that kavanah was something that existed separately from me, I didn’t even try. I had been faithless and foolish. I did, however, learn something that day: the Creator has endowed each of us with plenty of kavanah. However, in order to engage it we must also have faith; and sadly, faith is in much shorter supply.

Written by Shoshana H. Hogue

Death, Sex, Experience and Loyalty: The Biblical Understanding of Knowledge

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photo-1428263197823-ce6a8620d1e1

There is an entire school of philosophy on knowledge called epistemology. While most of us go through our lives without thinking about the nature of knowledge (at least I do), there are geniuses around the world who spend their days trying to answer the question of what knowledge is, where it comes from, and if we can truly know knowledge at all!

The Hebrew Bible has an interesting take on this, and it all begins with death, sex, and ends with loyalty.

The first time we hear about knowledge in the bible is the Tree of Knowledge, more specifically, the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil. We’re told in this story that if Adam (representing humanity) eats from this tree he will die (Genesis 2:17). So the narrator in this story is setting up an interesting problem for Adam: if you want to be fully human, that is, to be filled with knowledge, you will die. Adam is also very childlike in this story — and as anyone with children will tell you, saying to children that they can have anything they want except one thing will always drive them toward that one thing!

And that’s exactly what happens to Adam.

In the next scene, Eve is talking to the serpent, who says “God knows that in the day you eat [the fruit], your eyes will be opened and you will be like God, knowing good and evil” (Genesis 3:5). If a person becomes a god, they cease to be their mortal selves. In this way, a person dies when they have the kind of knowledge that a god would have.

But something odd happens. When Adam and Eve eat the fruit, they don’t become gods at all. It turns out that in Eden there is a tree of immortality, and if Adam and Eve had time, they could have eaten from it, but God stops them and drives out Adam and Eve from the garden just in case (Genesis 3:22).

From this we learn the Biblical author’s idea about godhood: what makes a god is the knowledge of good and evil combined with eternal life.

Adam and Eve pass on the knowledge, a god-like knowledge, to all of humankind. Their sin is ultimately our victory: being truly human instead of the child-like garden creatures Adam and Eve started their lives as. Human beings have knowledge of everything that makes life worthwhile, including sacred suffering, such as laboring for our basic needs, sexual tension, emotional dynamics and giving life to future generations (3:16-20). In this moment, God is telling the first human family that for all the suffering they will encounter, these sufferings will lead to great moments of rapture, and, in the end, while they are mortal, they will live on through the generations that will come.

Side note: isn’t it amazing that we take this story and only make it all about fruit and sin? It’s insane.

Anyway, I digress.

There was a tree of knowledge. God’s creation ate from it and gained knowledge, becoming fully human. And what did they do next? They had sex.

“And the man knew Eve his wife” (Genesis 4:1). The same word for knowledge, daat, flows through the entire text. Adam, humanity, knows Eve, whose name means life.

So this story connects the essence of being human, a creature that knows the whole of good and evil, with death and sexuality.

And it ends, sadly.

The next time that knowledge is brought up, the child that Eve conceives (Cain) has murdered his younger brother Abel. When God asks what has happened, Cain replies, “I know not” (4:9).

And the last time we hear of knowledge in this story is when Cain knows his wife, and together they have the child Enoch (4:17).

In summary: Humanity is human because of the experience of death, sex, creating life, more death and more life. Knowledge is more than intelligence, it’s about experiences. It took ‘earth people’ committing sins to become human. They needed the experience of being expelled, of experiencing sex, life, death and more life, in order to become what we are today.

We are a part of this story, as the children of Adam and Eve: of Earthling and Life-Giver. Why? Because the writers of the Genesis story want us to know that we are connected to the earth, to each other, and to life itself.

There are reclusive people in the world. There are people who are racked by emotional turmoil, fear, anger, resentment and the many other feelings which trap us in a prison of our own design. There are people who have turned their back on life, feeling like they have been punished too much to keep dealing with other people. Some people choose not to have friends and family. The world they live in is entirely of their own design. And even if they believe that world to be perfect just as it is, they secretly want something better, something real. In order to avoid suffering, they choose another kind of suffering.

So we learn that knowledge is about the fullness of life that comes from experience. But what of it? We can have all the experiences we want, but that doesn’t mean we truly know anything. Dumb people go through life all the time.

And that’s when the Bible introduces the second half of knowledge: loyalty.

Everything in the Bible is about relationships.

The Book of Hosea tells the story of a prophet who is married to a prostitute named Gomer.

Side note: Gomer?! Really?

Anyway.

Gomer sleeps with another man, but even so, Hosea loves her and forgives her. It is a story that is understood as a metaphor: Israel is the adulterous spouse and God is the forgiving, loving spouse. Adultery can ruin a relationship. The writer of the text new this and understood that this metaphor would resonate with its readers. The powerful connection between humanity and God is felt so strongly that the torturous feeling of two hearts being ripped apart in adultery was the closest way the writer could express what this covenant, this relationship, was between God and the Israelites.

From first-hand experience we know truth. The knowledge of that truth becomes so powerful that we cannot help but cleave to it. The poets of the Psalms understood this when they said:

Guide me in your truth and teach me; for you are the God of my salvation (25:5)
Send out your light and your truth; let them lead me (43:3)
Lord, teach me your way, that I may walk in your truth (86:11)

From experience we know the truth. And to fully have truth, we need loyalty.

If you are spiritual, but not religious, it can be hard to know what “capital T” Truth is. Fundamentalists often ask the irreligious the question, “if you don’t believe in the Bible, how do you know what the truth is? How do you know what morality is?” Often the answer is something vague like natural law, or the golden rule, or a counter argument like “if you need a book to tell you it’s wrong to kill, then something is wrong with you.”

But the honest truth is that without some kind of compass guiding you in the right direction. Without some kind of framework for understanding life, you are…well…lost.

Knowledge is possible. It doesn’t come from blindly accepting what some New Age guru says. It doesn’t come from the Law of Attraction or whatever pop-culture theology is hot today. It comes from experiences. And having fidelity to those experiences.

You are smart, and so were the people of the Biblical texts. They were human beings who lived in a depth of reality that for many of us seems impossible. These ancient peoples were connected to the cycle of nature, the rhythm of life and death and constant emotional connection to the universe in indescribable ways. And those very real moments of their lives, and a fidelity to those experiences, gave them the knowledge that they passed down to us generations later.

Not bad, huh?

Written by Rabbi Patrick

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